William Weber - Turning the Tide

Hands on her hips, a trickle of sweat running down her back, Diane began to turn her attention back to the table when something drew her attention. Past the greenhouse and the twin windmills chopping lazily at the air above her, a thin figure in dark jeans and a black hoodie stepped into the woodlands that ran next to the high school. Diane stood, staring for a moment, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her. Whoever it was had what looked like a piece of paper in his hand, which he folded as he disappeared. But what struck her as odd wasn’t merely that the man’s hoodie was pulled up over his head on such a warm evening, it was that he was heading toward the woods on the edge of town. Most citizens steered clear of the forest, especially when dusk drew near. A few miles away lay the Chinese lines. Sure, there were a handful of American troops positioned at key sections along the perimeter, but they couldn’t watch the whole area at once.

Diane picked up the hammer and was about to go back to work when she stopped and let it fall to the ground. The Colt .45 in the holster on her hip gave her a feeling of confidence and John’s final words to keep an eye out helped to infuse her with a sense of obligation. She turned to one of the workers nearby, a man in his fifties named Stew who wore a long beard and tie-dye t-shirt. “Did you see that?” she asked, pointing toward the forest’s edge.

Stew glanced up, looking tired and more than a little impatient. “Right now all I see is my bed.”

There was normally a pair of guards patrolling the area, but right now she didn’t see them. “Listen, I’m going to check something out. Just keep an eye out for the patrol and send them over my way. Will you do that?”

Stew shrugged. “Sure.”

Making her way toward the spot where she’d seen the dark figure disappear, Diane felt her chest tighten. Having a gun didn’t always do a whole lot to ease one’s mind when you were on the cusp of entering a dark area, a feeling only made worse when you were pursuing someone who might be up to no good.

Her holster was an old tan leather World War Two replica and she unsnapped the flap, curling her fingers around the pistol grip. She arrived at the treeline, keeping low, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. The sound of snapping twigs and crunching leaves nearby made her anxiety spike.

Heart hammering in her neck, she crept into the shadow cast by the leaves overhead, not wanting to be outlined by standing in the dying light. Still, she saw nothing. Then slowly, fuzzy shapes began to take on solid form as her eyes grew accustomed to the lack of proper light. Crouched down behind a maple tree, she spotted the shadow of a man going from left to right. He was twenty yards away, crossing in front of her on their way back toward town. Soon he emerged from the woods empty-handed.

What about the piece of paper she’d seen him carrying? Had he slipped it into a pocket? Or had he left it behind for someone else to find?

But the thought which drowned out all others was that she suddenly knew who she was looking at: Phoenix.

Diane drew her pistol and hurried out of the woods, stumbling through brush and over fallen branches. As soon as she reached the clearing, she flicked off the safety on her .45 and leveled it at the figure in dark clothing who was walking away.

“Stop right there,” she shouted.

The figure hesitated, but kept on going.

Diane broke into a quick jog, her pistol at the low ready, finger along the barrel just off the trigger.

The figure turned and glanced back and this was the first clear sight she caught of him. He appeared thin and malnourished. But the fear blooming on his face told her right away she had the right man. Only someone up to no good would be nervous when asked to stop. Guilty men also didn’t break into a run and that was exactly what he did.

Diane swore and tore after him. The temptation to fire was strong, but if she was right and this was indeed Phoenix, then they would need to take him alive.

His clothes rippled on his narrow frame. His pants were sliding down, forcing him to hold his waistband as he fled.

“This is your last warning,” she shouted as she leveled her pistol and fired a warning shot in the air.

A second later, the suspect ducked in through the doorway of a nearby building.

Nearby a group of civilians gathering chunks of steel from a pile of debris stopped and stared at her with startled apprehension.

“He went in there,” one of them, said pointing.

She spotted one of Colonel Higgs’ men heading this way, his M4 clutched in both hands.

“Soldier, I need your help clearing this building,” she told him. “We’ve got someone inside who may be a Chinese agent.”

“Let me go in first, Mrs. Mack,” he said, recognizing her. The soldier reached into a pouch and attached a tactical flashlight onto his rifle.

She followed him inside, sweeping the rooms with him as best she could. She had never been trained for this. When he entered a room from the left, she covered the right angle. Part of it was common sense, but no doubt her lack of experience meant she was making mistakes. Hopefully mistakes that wouldn’t get them killed. With the bottom floor cleared, the two made their way upstairs.

“Oneida security,” the soldier shouted, swinging his flashlight rapidly from one corner to the next. “There’s no use resisting.”

They were in what was once the office for a tractor rental company. Desks in each room showcased computers that were as dead as the people who’d used them probably were.

The door of the final office bore the name Timothy Simmons and both Diane and the soldier entered cautiously. Unless the assailant had somehow managed to dematerialize like they did on those sci-fi shows on TV, then he was in this room.

The soldier pointed to the closet behind the desk. Framed pictures with a pair of toothless kids and a plain-looking woman sat by on the window ledge, collecting dust.

Closing his hand around the closet door handle, the soldier drew in a deep breath, his M4 steadied in his other hand.

He jerked it open and that was when the man inside held up his hands, his eyes wide and filled with primal fear.

The soldier grabbed him by the hoodie and yanked him out onto his face. Diane helped place and tighten zip ties around his wrists before both of them lifted the man to his feet and all at once she recognized the gaunt and frightened face staring back at her.

It was David Newbury.

Despite the heavy load of weapons and supplies the Rough Riders brought with them, John’s guerrilla force made great time. They reached the wood line facing the Jonesboro concentration camp late on the second day at just after 1700 hours.

John had pushed his horse and many of his men to near their breaking point in his determination to arrive as quickly as possible. Only warnings from Reese that John’s horse might drop dead had made him pull back.

Now in place, they sat and waited for the sun to dip beyond the horizon. At precisely 1945, John would give the order for his men to crawl into position for the main assault. About five hundred yards to the north Delta, Echo and Foxtrot squads were concealed in the forest next to the road. John kept in touch with each of his six squads with encrypted military-grade PRC-17 walkie-talkies, although he’d given his men instructions to maintain radio silence unless it was absolutely necessary.

When the signal was given, Delta and Echo would set up blocking positions along the east and west approaches on 1st Street while Foxtrot would face the camp’s front entrance. Their role wasn’t to storm in via the most likely avenue of approach, but rather to draw North Korean soldiers away from the main battle. Foxtrot’s secondary mission was to provide extra support to Delta and Echo on their flanks should the enemy reinforcements come in heavier than expected.